


A Conversation in Potential Energy

by notthequiettype



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-01
Updated: 2018-01-01
Packaged: 2019-02-26 14:24:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13237593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notthequiettype/pseuds/notthequiettype
Summary: Mostly what Joe says is, “No.”





	A Conversation in Potential Energy

Mostly what Joe says is, “No.”

“Just no? Seriously?”

“Yeah. No. Is that all you wanted?”

Patrick’s actually sort of stunned into silence for a minute, his throat clicking through his gaping mouth. He’d talked to Andy first because he was sure that would be the harder sell. Joe was supposed to be the reward. “I. Yeah, I guess.”

“‘Kay. You want to go to dinner next week?”

Patrick’s still kind of gaping, staring at his phone like it’s betrayed him. He doesn’t feel like Joe has, somehow. “But. The songs are good, Joe. There’s potential.”

Joe sighs, quiet, and Patrick’s grateful that it sounds tired and not mean. “I did my time, dude. I’m grateful for it, for you guys, but I’m doing other shit now. It’s not like I need the money.”

Patrick tries not to take that personally. He hasn’t talked about that with Joe. The misadventures of a solo project. He relives it as little as possible. “It’s not about the money.” It’s not, even if it won’t hurt. “This is still our band. I still want it to be. You don’t?”

“We had a good fucking run, dude. I’m fine with that.”

“But at the end—“

“I didn’t care about the sales, Patrick. I never did. You’re never going to make me, so stop, like, reliving your idea of failure at me.”

Patrick laughs mirthlessly because he remembers, how much he and Pete cared, how pissed the sales and the booing made them, how Joe and Andy didn’t care, just wanted to play because they still loved it until they didn’t anymore. 

“You were miserable at the end.”

“Not because of sales, man.”

Patrick remembers that too. Pete was a fucking mess, impossible to contain and at the end, tolerate. Patrick wasn’t better, just less wasted. “I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to be. You both made your amends. I love you guys. Your karma’s clear.”

“I don’t think that’s how karma works.”

“I’ll ask Andy.”

Patrick laughs, scrubs a hand over his face. He thought this would be a five minute phone call. They’ve already been on for almost an hour. He’s going to remember it longer. “There’s not even a little part of you that wants it again? Any part of it? You loved the crowds, Joe, I remember.”

“Of course there’s a part that wants it again.” Joe huffs a laugh and Patrick hears an explosion in the background, from a tv with the sound way down. “It’s just not a part that’ll convince the rest of me. My memory’s too good.” Patrick listens closer and hears more noises, gunfire. 

“Are you— motherfucker, are you playing _video games_ while I talk to you about the fucking... fate of my career?”

Joe laughs, raspy and so familiar Patrick’s chest goes tight. They talk, see each other. Not often enough. “Call of Duty waits for no man.”

Patrick laughs because it’s either that or cry. “Should I take that as a sign that you’re not taking this conversation seriously.”

“As seriously as I take any.”

“No, I mean.” Patrick blows out a breath, hard, and takes another deep one. “I’m serious. Pete’s serious. This is serious. This isn’t me just kicking something around. The songs are _good_ , Joe.”

“I don’t want to do something I’ve already done, man.”

Patrick almost fist-pumps. This part he can handle. “It’s not. That’s not what I want either and this stuff. It’s new. It’s different. Really.”

“I don’t want to be 19 again, Patrick. And I don’t want to make music that sounds like I am either.”

“You think that’s what people want?”

“I think that’s what you think they do.”

Patrick tries to muster all the resolve he’s been practicing with himself. “I don’t give a shit what they want.”

Joe laughs. “God damn, I almost believe that.”

“I mean it.” Patrick pushes his hair back off his face, rubs at his eyes. “I already hit rock bottom on my own, dude. What’s the worst that can happen.”

“It could happen again except this time with the band that made you famous in the first place. You could do it with Pete.”

“Is that what you’re worried about? Pete?”

“He’s doing good, you know. I don’t know how like, tenuous that is.”

Patrick doesn’t really know either. Six months ago he wasn’t even sure he’d ever talk to Pete regularly again. He’d consigned him to the past, the entire Fall Out Boy experience, more than ten years of his life like some sort of fucked up fever dream. “He’s better about talking now, telling me he needs time, a break, whatever, telling me he doesn’t like what I’m doing without being all. Pete. About it. I don’t think it’s that fragile.”

Joe doesn’t respond, but Patrick knows he’s thinking. He tries not to get his hopes up, just listens to Joe quietly killing things in the background. It’s weirdly comfortable.

“You used to swear more,” Patrick says, flipping through the New Yorker that’s been sitting on his coffee table for weeks, untouched. 

“In general?”

Patrick laughs, soft. “When you played video games. It used to get sort of intense.”

"Age has made me extremely chill."

Patrick laughs brightly. "That's good. You've always been so high-strung." Were it not for Andy, Joe would be the most relaxed person that Patrick has ever known. Depending on the day, it's still kind of a toss-up.

It's quiet for another long minute and Patrick considers giving up. He and Pete can keep working for now. Andy too, if Joe’s no doesn’t change his mind. They can get pretty far. Try again when Joe's had some time to stew on it. 

“I have, like. Conditions.”

It startles Patrick so much he drops the magazine and grabs for his phone, taking it off speaker. "Anything."

"Don't sell your soul for me, dude. I'm not that good."

He is that good and Patrick would argue, but flattery's never really worked on Joe. Pete needs praise. Joe beams under a simple, 'Great job, dude.' He huffs instead. "Then I'll do my best." Patrick's so fucking happy he could scream. He thinks maybe he should be embarrassed by it, but he misses his fucking band. He didn't even know it until Pete said it, but he realizes it's more true every day.

"Pete needs to be seeing somebody. Therapeutically. Professionally. On the regular."

Patrick grimaces. "I don't know if that's something any of us can control."

"Too bad. If it's an album now, it's a tour later and another after that, and I'm not going into this with any serious chance that he's going to end up like he did the last time. I'm too old and I care about him too much."

Patrick feels guilty that this isn't a thing he's already thought about. There was a time in his life where Pete's well-being took up about 60% of his brainpower, but Joe's always been more empathetic. "I'll talk to him about it."

He hears another explosion through the phone, louder now that it's not through the speaker. "Plural."

"What?"

"You said 'conditions.' I assume there are more coming."

"Oh. Yeah. One."

"That's it?"

"You won't like this one."

"Try me."

Joe takes a deep breath and lets it out in a loud rush. "I want to write, Patrick."

"Oh," Patrick says. It's something he's been thinking about, back and forth. The last one was collaborative, more than before, and it didn't do what it was supposed to. Part of him cares about that. The rest of him hates that part. "Okay."

Joe laughs, a surprised sound. "You're not that good of a liar, dude."

Patrick huffs, laughing. "I'm not lying. It's something I've been thinking about anyway."

"Yeah, sure. You're so relaxed and easygoing when you're making an album."

"No, I'm not. I'm a temperamental control freak and I act like an asshole. I'm trying kind of hard not to be that guy." Patrick takes a deep breath because he wants this to work and making this work probably means being honest. "That guy would have holed up with Pete and wrote the entire thing. Then called you to track it. I--uh. Well. I stopped after four songs."

"Impressive." Joe's being sarcastic, but Patrick can practically hear him smiling. 

"Come on, man. I'm not going to give you a speech about how it'll be different this time because I can't promise anything, but it feels different. Pete's different. I'm trying to be. I just want. I want to make an album with my friends. I want to make an album with my fucking _band_."

"I have another condition."

Patrick feels volcanic with enthusiasm, with hope. "Name it."

"We don't tell _anyone_ we're trying. No one. NO. ONE. Absolute blackout fucking Masonic-level secrecy. I'm not talking about this shit until it's done. Done-done. Done. And if any of you talk, I'm out."

Joe's so vehement, it's almost startling. He doesn't really do serious so when he does, Patrick knows to listen. He is, but it's easier to joke. "Are you saying you're ashamed of me?"

Joe laughs at least then goes low and serious. "I just don't want the whole," he pauses and Patrick thinks he's probably waving his hand around, a gesture meaning something like 'everything.' "Deal. You know? If it all goes tits up. I don't want, like, Fall Out Boy's failed reunion in my fucking obituary."

Patrick hadn't really considered failure, not seriously. Things really must have changed if he's the optimist now. He'd expected to fail at every step from the very beginning. Pete was the believer, Joe and Andy the hopeful realists, and Patrick had to be dragged through, kicking and screaming, always wanting to aim lower so the fall wouldn't hurt so bad. They'd fallen pretty steeply in the end. He doesn't think it scares him anymore. "Super secret. Got it."

"Okay then," Joe says.

Patrick kind of freezes. "Seriously?" He's embarrassed that his voice sounds so small and astonished.

“Let’s make a fucking record.”

**Author's Note:**

> I read a blurb on the wiki for _Save Rock and Roll_ that said that Joe was the last person to come back and that it took a three hour phone conversation with Patrick to do it. Apparently my brain needed to do something with that.


End file.
